The Hollow Men
by Crossroad Avarice
Summary: "Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men." T.S. Eliot; 'The Hollow Men'. OCs.
1. Chapter 1

**Rila:** And I'm on the road with this, my newest little pet project! :D Yaaaay~ Beta-ed by the absolutely fantastic _Impoeia!_

Disclaimer: I own most of these clones. :D

Word Count: 636

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It was times like these that CT-22-1500 - affectionately nicknamed 'Zero' by his brothers - was grateful for the sanctuary of his helmet. Turning both internal and external comlinks off with the quick movement of his eyes, he exhaled. "You've got this," he told himself, closing his eyes as his grip tightened on his blaster. "Don't think about anything but the enemy. Focus on them."

His personal pep talk eased some of the tension in his shoulders, and he switched his comlinks back on as the interior of the LAAT/i was bathed in red light, signifying imminent enemy contact.

"Red light," someone said, and the pre-battle jokes and playful banter ceased as each soldier took to checking his weaponry, adjusting his helmet and psyching himself up for the battle they were about to enter. Zero stood stiffly between two of his brothers and blinked when a gloved hand clapped him on the shoulder.

"Ready for this, vod?" The voice was his own, and the face behind that helmet was also his own, but it was not him. Swallowing the bile that curdled in the back of his throat, Zero narrowed his eyes and nodded sharply.

"Of course I am." This was what he had been born for, what he had been trained for. There was no other option, no other opportunities for him to take. He'd been born as a soldier, and if it came down to it, he would die as a soldier. The metal floor of the LAAT/i rumbled as the ship touched down, red light switching to green. The door to the LAAT/i slid open, and bright light filtered in, the sound of blaster bolts with it.

_"Go, go, go!"_ The command was shouted as white plastoid bodies filtered out, blasters raised and already returning fire by the time Zero threw himself out of the LAAT/i. He ran, zigzagging a course across the rocky terrain, head tilted upward and focused upon the rows of yellow-brown droids that fired upon him and his brothers. The acrid, choking smell of discharged blaster bolts could not be erased completely by his helmet's filters, and Zero could taste it as he continued along, breathing harsh in his ears.

He was not alone, however; the sound of rapid footfalls to his left and right. The right stopped with a gurgled cry and a thud, and despite wanting to, Zero didn't look back. He couldn't look back. Adrenaline drummed through his veins as he continued along, ducking and weaving as he followed his brothers. His heart pounded and his mind raced as he knocked down droid after droid. _This is for my brothers, tinnies._

Sudden pain erupted across his chest like a burst of fire and for a moment, Zero wasn't quite sure what was happening. His grip went lax, blaster falling before he found himself on the hard ground, struggling to breathe properly. _What just happened?_

Someone bent down next to him and flipped him over, a helmeted head pressing to his chest before they turned and shouted, "I need a medic over here!" The soldier turned back to him. "You'll be alright, vod. Just hang on."

Had he been capable of lucid thought, Zero was sure he could have identified who was talking to him. But everything was going fuzzy at the edges, voices distorting and shapes melting as his vision darkened. _Am I dying?_ He swallowed, tasting blood. _I can't die here. _But everything was going black, and Zero couldn't see or hear anything any longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rila:** So I fell off the planet..._again._ I say I'll update and then I don't...-sigh- Anyway, enjoy this! It's been sitting on my hard-drive, already beta-ed and finished for almost two weeks. ;3; Forgive me?

Disclaimer: _I don't own TCW. I got my mother to watch AotC today, though! Victory! :3_

_Word Count:_1,072

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_"War is often a potent and lethal addiction; for war is a drug." - Chris Hedges._

* * *

_Scene Zero [In Transit]_

There were days where Spark wished that he wasn't the Commander of Spartan Company; days where he'd gladly step back and allow someone else to shoulder the burden. Today was one of those days, but the task that faced him was one that nobody ever wanted. It was a task that officers were faced with when the numbers grew too few, the losses too large to ignore any longer.

Spark resisted the urge to snort. _Like I could forget._ The losses hadn't been just numbers, the dead not just faceless men. They'd each had names, they'd each had their own quirks. They had not just been soldiers - they had been _brothers._ Now they were just names the survivors refused to say, and empty bunks that refused to let Spark sleep peacefully, haunted and mocked by the dead.

But his had not been the only squad to face losses; some were off worse than even his own. Some, he knew too well, had lost so many that the survivors had been placed into a depot for reassignment.

_Repple-depple._

As if the nickname could take away the reasons behind it, could take away the guilt that said reasons left the occupants with. Others avoided the repple-depple like it was some sort of plague, uncomfortable with being around those who had survived where others had not. Not out of hatred, but out of pity and a growing bitterness towards the war. A war that had, in Spark's opinion, been going on for far too long.

_"How many more men are we going to lose?"_ The question had not been his own, asked by a girl desperate to know what more it would take to see it all end. A pair of vivid green eyes that had watched him, pleading for an answer that he couldn't give.

"I don't know," Spark murmured, repeating the answer that he'd given her. It had not been an answer she'd been content with, but it'd been the only one he could find. She'd lapsed into moody silence afterwards; a silence that persisted even now. Nearly matching him step for step, General Alyss Muir stared straight ahead, mouth pressed into a thin line and hands at her sides. Every so often her fingers would twitch, as if she were struggling with her thoughts.

Spark knew the feeling. For a moment, he felt that there was something he should've said to break her from her silence - words of comfort, or encouragement, but found none and so stayed silent. The repple-depple was not hard to find, a thin cluster of white-clad bodies bracketed by a pair of MPs that looked up as he and his companion approached.

"Officers on deck!" One of them called, hands snapping up in a crisp salute.

"At ease," answered Alyss, shattering her moody silence as she glanced at Spark, eyes flicking to the soldiers. Spark stepped forward.

"My name," he began, ignoring the weight of curious eyes upon his scar, "is Commander Spark. This," he continued, gesturing to Alyss, "is General Muir. You will address me as Commander or Sir, and you will address her as General or Sir. Is that understood?"

"Sir yes sir!" A chorus of similarly sounding voices answered, and Spark allowed himself a small smile in return.

"Welcome to Spartan Company, men."

_Scene One [Until the End]_

Gasping for air, Blast threw himself behind the overturned tank, hearing the tinny report of blaster bolts against the surface. Sweat slid down his face, and he resisted the sudden impulse to tug his helmet off as he hugged his blaster close and rolled, dust clinging to the knees of his battered armor as he leapt up and answered the report of enemy fire with a fresh burst from his weapon.

Scattered across the dusty battlefield his brothers did the same, and he caught the hazy blue blur of the General's lightsaber as it cut a pathway through metal bodies. Not far from General Muir was Commander Spark, taking out droid after droid. Falling back to rest against the tank, Blast grinned.

It wasn't out of humor, Blast knew, but rather a response to the adrenaline that pumped through his veins. "Blast!" He turned at the call of his name, watching as Ghost barrelled across the battlefield, unhooking the pack from his back as he did so. "Det time!"

The grin widened. "My favorite part!" Blast shouted back, rolling to his feet and following Ghost as his fellow soldier turned on his heel and ran. Blast's heart pounded in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as adrenaline sharpened his senses. It was in moments like this that Blast felt his HUD to be almost useless. He didn't need to hear, he didn't need to see. He _felt._

There was nothing like the rush of rigging things to explode. There were few brothers that understood his avid adoration for it, an adoration that had given rise to his name. _Blast._

_I like to make things go boom._ His grin had turned nearly gleeful as he dug through his pack and began sticking the explosives onto enemy tanks, watching as Ghost did the same until both packs were empty.

The return trip was the same chaotic mess of blaster bolts and shouting, and Blast dove for the tank, plastoid scraping against the ground. Ghost, dragging himself to rest against the tank, lifted his arm to key his comlink. "Explosives are in place, General."

"Give me a moment," General Muir responded, and both men could hear her shouting for several moments before she spoke to them again. "Do it."

Ghost turned to him. "Ready?"

Blast grinned and gave his brother a thumbs-up. "Let's do it."

The sound of things exploding, Blast had long ago decided, was the loveliest thing he'd ever heard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rila: **So I'm determined not to let this setback of my computer wiping out some of my files prevent me from updating. I'm going to start triple saving my stuff to prevent this from happening again, however. **Note:** The next chapter is _anachronological._ Meaning it takes place prior to this chapter - and thus explains some gaps (i.e: Blast's behavior).

Disclaim: _I don't own Star Wars: The Clone Wars. I do, however, own a great many of the characters below. _

Word Count: 1,333

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"_We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost." — Erich Maria Remarque, __All's Quiet on the Western Front_

* * *

_Scene Two [Sons of War]_

His chest burned. Pain licked across the network of scar tissue like wildfire. It was nothing new, however, and Zero stayed quiet.

"Any pain?"

Zero closed his eyes, counted to ten, then answered. "No." Opening them, he stared back when the medic fixed him with a probing look, fingers pressing across his chest. He'd been lucky, he'd been told upon waking, that he was still here and not just another unfortunate casualty. Depending on the day, Zero was either inclined to agree or disagree.

"I want you to come back in a couple of days," the medic told him, "and to come find me if anything changes."

"Right," Zero answered, tugging his shirt over his head. It pulled at puckered skin, fabric brushing over the tender area. "See you." The medic simply nodded, and Zero left. Part of him wanted to head back to the barracks to grab his armor, but the grumbling of his stomach had him moving towards the mess hall instead.

There were plenty of brothers already there, though Zero found himself looking for an empty table to sit at. There was no such thing as an unfamiliar face when everyone looked the same, but he wasn't in the mood for company. And so, with food in hand, Zero settled at an empty table to the far left, tension easing from his shoulders.

Despite not wanting company, Zero found no reason to keep his eyes from wandering, sliding from table to table. There were brothers laughing and joking with each other, and Zero found himself watching for longer than he had intended. Here, he mused, one would never think that they were bred to fight and die in battle, to mow down enemy lines without batting an eye. Here, they laughed with each other and cracked bad jokes. Here, they were _normal._

Zero snorted, ignoring the fresh twinge of pain that skittered across his chest. _That, _he thought bitterly, taking a swig of his caf and enjoying the way it burned all the way down his throat, _is something that we're not. But..._

"May I sit with you?" The voice of a fellow brother tore Zero from his thoughts and he looked up, finding a familiar face staring down at him. Not waiting for him to respond, the clone settled himself across from him, helmet tossed onto the table with a thud. "You're Zero, right?"

Zero nodded, watching him warily. _Go on, ask. Ask how I survived when the rest of my squad didn't._ The clone grinned and stabbed at his food, shovelling it into his mouth with zeal.

"I'm Blast," he managed around a mouthful of food, "Spartan Company's token demolitions expert. If you need something blown up, just come find me."

"I'll keep that in mind," Zero murmured, and Blast swallowed.

"Are you liking Spartan Company so far?"

Blinking, Zero stared for a moment and then looked down at his food, pushing around the last few pieces. "It isn't anything like my squad was," he began, and instead of pushing him to say something else, Blast offered a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

"Of course it wouldn't be," he answered, "Each company has its own way of operating. But I think we've got it pretty good. General Muir's good to us."

"But she's a Jedi," Zero said before he could stop himself, and Blast stilled in his enthusiastic eating to look at him. Zero's cheeks began to warm, and Blast looked down at his plate.

"That's true," he answered, "but she doesn't treat us like she's better than us. When General Muir says she won't leave someone behind, she means it." It wasn't blind admiration for the Jedi General, but a steadfast conviction that came from experiencing combat with her. Zero's shoulders relaxed, and something like guilt pooled in his stomach.

"I didn't-"

"It's alright, vod. You're still getting the hang of things around here." Blast smiled before continuing. "There are those who treat us like canon fodder, but General Muir isn't one of them." He lapsed into silence for a moment, watching Zero. "Do you know where we go when we die?"

Zero was silent, uncertain of how to respond and confused as to the sudden change in topic. Blast continued, the humor replaced with an eerie indifference. He stared down at his helmet and reached for it, fingers brushing over the dents and scrapes. "It doesn't matter, I guess. Wherever I end up, I'm just going to tell them one thing."

Zero wasn't sure if he wanted to know, but curiosity had him asking anyway. "And what's that, vod?"

Blast stared down at his helmet a moment longer before putting it on. "Just another soldier reporting, sir," he answered at last, voice modulated by the helmet. "I've served my time in Hell."

* * *

_Scene Three [Art of Survival]_

Blue and green clashed with a flare of sparks and humming blades before breaking away and rejoining again. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Alyss Muir swung her blade with a practiced ease, searching for an opening that would give her the victory she was looking for.

Koria Adeck smiled at her former Padawan, blocking the younger Jedi's strikes with her own. Age and experience had tempered Alyss's movements; they were no longer the quick, hard strikes she had thought would guarantee her success. Her Padawan had grown up, and it showed. "I believe this is enough for today," she said, and Alyss blinked before falling back a couple of steps.

"Afraid of losing, my Master?" Teasing in tone, Alyss's eyes glimmered with laughter as she spoke, and Koria's smile widened.

"Not quite, young one. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"That's a feeble excuse, Master."

"Even so," Koria countered, thumbing the button of her lightsaber and clipping it to her belt. Alyss did the same and fell into step with her as she moved away from the training area. "It's good to see you again, my former apprentice. It's been quite some time since I've seen you."

"Likewise, Master."

"Have you thought about teaching a Padawan yet?" Koria watched her, waiting for her to respond. Alyss picked a few fraying strands from the cuff of her left sleeve and sighed.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready for that responsibility yet, Master."

"The fact that you're willing to admit it says that you are," Koria answered. Alyss's mouth curled into a small smile and then faded.

"This war isn't something I want to bring a Padawan into." Her brows furrowed, head lowering as her steps slowed. "I'm afraid we're losing this war, Master."

With her shoulders hunched, it was too easy to see her as the little Padawan she had once been, and Koria stepped forward to place a hand on the younger Jedi's shoulder. "Have faith, my former apprentice. We will not lose this war."

Unconvinced, Alyss's green eyes met Koria's blue. "How, Master? How can you be so certain?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Rila:** And here we have the beginning of what lead up to Blast's shift in behavior. The main chunk is in two parts, and I've got Blast dealing with the aftermath in the following chapter. Beta-ed by the wonderfully amazing _Impoeia_. :D

Disclaim: _I wish they hadn't cancelled TCW...but we get the Rebels series! Yaaay~ _

Word Count: 693

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_"Leaders are made, they are not born. They are made by hard effort, which is the price which all of us must pay to achieve any goal that is worthwhile." — Vince Lombardi._

* * *

_Scene Four. [Iron]_

Not for the first time was Alyss grateful that she had changed her footwear. The boots were sturdier than her last pair, though mud sucked and squelched around them unpleasantly. The humidity and marshy ground underfoot did not improve her mood, nor did the flitnats that crowded around her face.

Behind her, the small group of troopers she'd brought with her were fairing no better. But they, like her, had learned how to suffer silently — especially in the face of victory.

"_Osik_!" The soft, hushed swear was followed by the squelching noise that accompanied footsteps.

"Stuck _again_?"

"I can't help that I'm so attractive."

A snort. "Yeah, like a bantha's backside."

Even their banter was hushed, and Alyss tilted her head, hard pressed to keep the amusement out of her voice as she said, "We're almost there, boys."

There was a soft, ragged sigh of collective relief. Footsteps approaching her made her turn. "Hawk."

"General." A plastoid helmet dipped. "Are you sure this plan will work?"

The question made her blink. _Was_ she certain this plan would work? _Yes, _she mused after a moment,_ I am. After all, if he thinks it'll work, I do. I trust him._

_"I'm counting on you, General."_

_And he's counting on me._ She could feel the troopers — her troopers — in the Force, so much the same and yet not. **They** _are counting on me. I can't let them down._

"Yes," she answered at last, "I do."

_And I won't._

* * *

_Scene Five. [The Sound of Drums]_

From where he stood, Spark analyzed the slow approach of the enemy. Clankers, followed by tanks. Not much in the way of force - compared to the numbers they'd had before — but enough to be a problem if the plan didn't work.

"Those clankers are getting awfully close, sir." Zero edged closer to him. The helmet kept his face hidden, but the tense undertone to his words was hard to miss. His was a new face among more familiar ones, and it was clear he hadn't thawed enough to share the company's typical sense of confidence.

Turning, Spark searched for words that would instill the right type of confidence in his brother. But what could he say when his men had come by it through experience?

"Don't worry," Spark answered at last, repeating what he had been told long ago, "I've got your six."

Spark couldn't see if Zero's expression changed — but it seemed to be enough, as his fellow clone's head dropped in a crisp nod. Perhaps those words meant a little more to him — someone who'd seen combat, someone who'd lost brothers — than they would to some wet behind the ears shiny.

Zero departed, and Spark turned his attention to the thick line of trees that bordered one side of the soon to be battlefield.

_Come on,_ he thought, willing there to be a glimpse of white plastoid through the gaps in the trees, _where are you?_

As if sensing his thoughts, there was a brief burst of movement that he quickly focused on, unable to stop the relieved smile that spread across his lips. _The clankers won't even know what hit them._

Plastoid shells covered in mud from the knees down, the clones were quick to burst from their cover, blasters raised and ready. Alyss was at the front, lightsaber a blinding beam of pale blue.

Spark turned. "What are we waiting for, men? Let's go join the party."


	5. Chapter 5

**Rila:** Howdy! :) I'm back with the second part! :D Working on the next chapter, but _Reasons to Burn_ is going to be updated first, followed by _Radioactive._ :) I get to see _Daughter_ on Sunday! :D

Disclaimer: I don't own TCW, though I do own a great many of the clones mentioned in this story.

Word Count: 1,075

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_"Soldiers, when committed to a task, can't compromise. It's unrelenting devotion to the standards of duty and courage, absolute loyalty to others, not letting the task go until it's been done." —_ John Keegan.

* * *

_Scene Six. [Unknown Soldier]_

"Incoming!"

The sharp cry was the only warning before the ground exploded, chunks of hard earth bouncing off Spark's armor. The chaos that always accompanied battle rang in his ears — familiar, like the fine grit that always found a way into his mouth. His bucket's filter worked, though he had never been told that it would protect him from everything — and he didn't expect it to.

_One way to get nutrition_, he thought with a snort that he quickly stifled. There were plenty of jokes about how dirt tasted better than ration cubes, but now wasn't the time to think about them.

Spark's eyes scanned the battlefield and settled to where Patch was making quick work of the less wounded soldiers. Spark had to give credit where credit was due — the man was steadfast in his job as Spartan Company's medic, hands unfalteringly steady even as a cannon round bit into sun baked earth nearby.

"Take those cannons down!" Spark bellowed before darting towards Patch and skidding to a halt next to the medic. "How's it looking, Patch?"

"These four need an evac," Patch answered, and Spark turned. One soldier was struggling to breathe, helmet discarded on the ground beside him. Part of the armor that covered his shoulder was missing, and despite the thick bandage on his shoulder, blood glistened on the plastoid's broken edges.

"I did my best, sir." Head rolling so that he could focus hazy eyes on Spark, the trooper's words formed around half empty gasps for air.

"I know, son." Spark closed his eyes and tried to weigh the chances of seeing the wounded troopers returned to him. Two were unresponsive, making it difficult to discern the extent of their injuries. _If Patch says they need evac_, Spark thought, _it isn't looking good._

The fourth man, however, seemed to know his fate, staring down at the stump, wrapped in stark white bandages, that had once been his right leg.

Spark edged closer. "I'm sorry, trooper." A part of him argued that it was disrespectful to leave out his name, though another part of him countered that it was still better than calling him a series of numbers. And at the end of the day, he would be another face that Spark wouldn't see in the mess; another body that would leave a bunk empty.

"Don't be, sir." The wounded man's voice cracked, and against his previous arguing, Spark found him placing a name to his face — Click. He was still a relatively new face within the company, and it made his situation even worse. "We both know how this ends, don't we?"

Spark winced. There was no bacta that could heal this, no synthflesh that could give Click back what he had lost. There was the hope that a prosthetic could be attached if the nerves were intact, but Click's pained, pinched, grim expression said it all.

"I've called in an evac," Patch spoke, and Spark nodded and reached out to clap a hand on Click's shoulder. Click shifted, and Spark's hand fell short.

"I'll see you later," he told Click, hoping that he could instill some sort of hope of recovery. Click's bleak expression didn't change, and Spark stood.

Even as he returned to the chaos of battle, Spark's thoughts lingered with Click, and he could still taste the bitterness of the lie he'd said. Click hadn't bought it for a moment, and Spark wished he hadn't said anything at all.

* * *

_Scene Seven. [This is War]_

The aftermath of a battle never failed to amaze Alyss. _Sometimes, it's hard to believe it happened at all_.

The bodies of droids and troopers alike that littered the broken ground, however, reminded her that it was indeed real. And while the casualties to the Separatists outweighed her own, Alyss still felt guilt churn in her stomach.

These were not flesh droids that wore plastoid shells; not faceless men. They'd had names, been soldiers — _her_ soldiers. And she'd let them down.

Footsteps approached, and Alyss pulled herself out of her thoughts.

"General, you need to let Patch look at that."

Tamping down a sudden flare of irritation, Alyss turned to Blast, whose helmet was tilted down at her in a way that she could only describe as disapproving.

"I'm fine," she argued.

"You're bleeding," he countered, and took ahold of her arm, gesturing to her shoulder. "Look."

Alyss turned her head. The split in the shoulder of her robe was nearly surgical in precision; a blaster bolt that had skimmed her shoulder in the heat of battle. Beneath the torn fabric, a laceration oozed bright red. "I said—"

"Look," Blast began tiredly, "I know Jedi can do some fancy things with the Force, but I'd feel better if you got it looked at. I'm sure the Commander would too."

Why Blast felt the need to bring Spark into the conversation, Alyss wasn't sure. She turned, spotting him as he checked in on what remained of their company. Not many had fallen, but Alyss still felt the weight of guilt in her stomach. Though they had won, the lack of usual enthusiasm from Blast hammered home that the victory did not quite outweigh the loss.

"Alright," she relented, "but on my own terms. I can wait until we get back to the ship."

She was certain Blast was frowning behind that helmet of his, though he simply released her arm with a sigh. "Better than nothing, I guess."

Alyss watched him go before turning her attention back to her men. The guilt returned, and her brow furrowed.

Sometimes, she mused as she turned away, victory tasted as bitter as defeat.


End file.
